Freaks flock together
by finmagik
Summary: While on the run Sherlock and Irene meet up in the most unlikely place. And Sherlock discovers more about Irene's past then he would have hoped.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock had run out of funds-they had frozen his bank accounts. He had his suspicions. Mycroft, out of concern, or one of Moriarty's old colleagues, out of malice. A clumsy attempt to flush him out into the open, but-and here he sneered at nothing-he was not a grouse or hare to be beaten out of the bushes. Hacking his bank accounts unseen would not be easy. Now, trapped in Brooklyn, he sat in the corner of a coffee shop with a very cheap second hand net book. This coffee shop had wifi, although the small cheap coffee he'd been nursing for hours was done. He was attempting to hack into a bank account for one Sigerson Montrose. He found the funds still frozen. No way so far to get anything out undetected-from his own account or John's. He considered e-mailing John to tell him... what? He opened a blank e-mail and stared at the cursor. What could he say that wouldn't give to much away?

He didn't look up at the waitress when she brought over the tea. He thanked her absently, then remembered he didn't order tea. He couldn't even afford a cup of tea. He looked at the napkin the tea was resting on, and the note scribbled in spreading ink: 'Hello, not dinner but close. Meet me in the back.' He looked up, sharply, and saw the back of a woman in a short leather skirt, fishnets, and a band t-shirt. Her hair was dyed a cherry red and put up in a lazy, sloppy, bun.. He scanned her up and down. Before he hadn't noticed her, just a barista behind the counter. But he knew those measurements, his life had depended on them before. It was her, the woman had to be her. She was talking to the owner- a young man with Sephardic features and tangle of black curly hair. She laughed and looked in Sherlock's direction. It was Irene. And then he watched her leave through a back door. He felt a pang of shock go through him-she had been here the whole time and he simply hadn't observed it.

He got up and began to follow. He bumped into the young man behind the counter.

The young man turned, startled. "Whoa there, why ya going out the back?"

At the moment Sherlock looked and was dressed like a poor student. He maintained his accent, he wasn't sure his American accent was up to long term use. Lots of students came here to nurse cups of coffee and use the free wifi.

"I'm going to have a smoke," Sherlock said. "Is that allowed? If my girlfriend sees me smoking in the front she'll freak out. I promised her I was quitting. But I just need one more to help me think."

"Oh, okay. Just watch out, my sister Ruth is back there, don't bother her," said the young man. "She doesn't like people bumming them off her."

Sherlock scanned him. His accent was New Jersey, his skin olive, curly black hair, and his nose was long, college drop out, mid-twenties, married three years happily, new baby, harried but happy the coffee shop was doing well. A bit of hippie, a bit of a hipster. Also Jewish, obviously. Short, but if you looked at the young man's face, the eyes, the shape, the lips were all like hers. Related, perhaps?

"Ah," Sherlock said, and held up a packet of Camels. "Don't worry. I have my own."

He pushed by the owner and went through the back door. In an unglamourous alley lined with trash cans, Irene leaned against another building, holding a cigarette between two long fingers.

"Hello Sherlock," she said, her voice as smooth and refined as always.

"You look different," he noted. "Punk?"

"I used to dress like this," she said. "When I was younger. In the 1990s."

"The owner seems to think you're his sister," he said.

He clenched his fists at the sight of her,so no one could see. So he shoved his hands deep in his pockets.

She laughed. "That's because I am his sister. Did you honestly think what you saw was the real me?"

He stared at her. She was telling the truth.

"So you lied to me," he said.

"Yes," she said, dropping the clear-cut accent for one set much closer to Atlantic City. "I had to protect Sam. He's my baby brother. This is his first business, and he's so earnest. Besides, I didn't want certain people knowing I'm a Jewish girl from Jersey."

"You could have told me," he said quietly. He wondered why he hadn't picked up on it before, that something was off about her. Maybe it was because she had thrown him off his guard so badly, he saw her and he wanted her. Even with the vulgar skirt and dyed red hair. He wanted her body, not just her mind or companionhip.

"No," she sighed. "I couldn't. Jim had your place bugged."

"Jim is dead, I watched him blow his brains out," said Sherlock.

"Maybe," she said. "But still it ruins my business when I -'tawlk lioke this.'" And she did a Jersey accent. "No one in London wants to be Dommed by Snooki."

Sherlock cringed. "So do you have a light, Ruth?" There was an edge to his voice, she had lied to him. He couldn't believe he'd missed this one. His hands were still fisted, he uncurled one stiffly to hold out a hand for the lighter.

"No," she said, falling back to the accent he was used to, pulling out a Zippo lighter with the silhouette of a curvy woman painted on it.

He leaned against the wall next to her. She lit his cigarette and they smoked in silence. What more was there to say?

A year ago after escaping Pakistan, in a hotel room in Calcutta, they had explored each other frankly and sexually. He had never cared about sex- a pleasure for simpler minds as far as he was concerned. Until he met her. And after the rescue, after the journey, when they were in an air conditioned room, the bed strewn with rose petals (they'd been convinced he and Irene were on honeymoon), she had taken him, over and over again. His body reacting quickly, making him shout, groan, and grunt in the most ridiculous display. The pleasure overwhelmed his reason and his dignity and, to his great surprise, he just didn't care. When they looked each other in the eyes they knew, they just knew there was a connection like fire and electricity. The reason didn't matter, just her eyes, her body, the feel of her lips and her cunt. He had explored her body, until he found the little spots and touches that made her buck and moan. At first he took her so hard she bounced and her legs wrapped around his back. Later, he took her gently, almost sentimentally, running his hands over her curves, memorising her. Sex was an odd thing, so simple and primal, but she taught him that there were a million different combinations, sensations, and variations.

And then it ended. One day he noticed a discolored spot on her right inner thigh, before lust had overcome him. The ghost of a tattoo, a simple name, later removed by laser.

"Who was that?" he asked.

"No one," she said coldly. "She's not important anymore. I erased her."

The next day he woke up, rolled over, and she was gone. There was nothing indicating she had ever been. Nothing but his memories and the scent of Chanel No. 5, trapped in the sheets.

In the alley, far away from Calcutta, she left again, her cigarette done. She walked by him and he had the awful urge to grab and kiss her. He didn't. He didn't even look at her.

That night he went back to the building he was currently squatting in- lucky that the power and the water still worked. He didn't waste it much. He wondered, smelling the mildew in the air, if he should consider getting a job. He took a shower and when he came out, Irene or Ruth or whoever she'd decided she was, was sitting on his bed, her legs crossed. All she wore was a Bikini Kill t-shirt three sizes too big.

"Who's is that?" asked Sherlock.

"An old friend's. She's she lent to me when I came back." Irene said.

"I don't want sex," Sherlock commented and sat on the bed as far from her as possible.

"I know," She said. "I think we should talk. Not all of what you know is a lie. My father was British, a musican he overdosed on heroin when I was two. My mother was his girlfriend a 'nice' Jewish girl from Orange. It's a long and messed up story. And I'm not telling you."

"Fine," He said. "That's enough to go on, Ruth."

"Sorry about Calcutta," She said. "I didn't want to leave. But someone had found me. And they are very dangerous."

"Who?' Sherlock asked.

"The woman whose name I had tattooed on my thigh," she said.

Sherlock said. "As dangerous as Moriarty?"

"More so, because she's never had the ambition to be in charge of things. Like your brother Mycroft only without government backing. She just drifts and does what she wants. She worked for him though on and off. That's how I met him." Irene said.

Despite what Sherlock had said, he made no move to resist her as she crawled towards him. And when she removed the t-shirt revealing bare skin underneath. He said nothing, and when she kissed him and pulled him on top of her. He kissed her back, put his arms around her and let himself give in to his body.

With sex he could blot out John's betrayed face, forget how alone he was. Or that he had betrayed John, the only friend he'd ever had. When he took her, making her moan and call, feeling the almost overwhelming sensations from every angle. Her body and his entwined. Whatever had been eating him inside vanished when they fucked, it might be back later And smelling her, feeling her, imagining perhaps they were the only two people in the world.

In 1978 Hulda Goldstein watched an a punk act called 'Technicolor Yawn'. They were a mediocre punk band in a city filled with them. The front man was named Joe Donit and she fell in love with him. He was tall and lean with yellow hair and snarling thin lips, seven years older than her, but his long face and cockney accent drew her to him. And he fell for her. It was a bit 'Sid & Nancy' but with a better ending Joe Donit was a kinder person. The band, although billed as the biggest thing in Manchester, were virtually unknown in England. Also Joe who's real name was Joesph Cecil Witcombe-Adlyr was not the working class boy seemed.

In 1980 Hulda screamed as she saw the second pink line on her pregnancy appear. She was pregnant just what she needed. They both did smack and the band looked as if it was about to break up. But she always wanted a baby and she loved Joe.

In April 1981 Joe Donit who had never told anyone his real name. Held his baby daughter Ruth in his arms. He smiled at his exhausted girlfriend, and then into a camera.

In 1983 Joe Donit was trying to get clean on methadone and get a new band together something dark wave. He was thinking of calling them: 'The Varnies' But then something went wrong, he started using again. And they found him O.D'd on his bathroom floor.

That same year Hulda graduated from a community college back in Orange. She had gotten her license to be a dental hygienist. She and her daughter were living back with her parents. She hadn't spoken Joe in six months when she heard he'd died.

In 1984 She met and married the dentist she worked for Dr. Virgil Levine. They had Samuel in 1986 and Meghan in 1989. Ruth never quite fit with them.

That same year Lady Mary Witcombe-Adlyr began the investigation into her youngest son's disappearance. She had never gotten along with him, virtually disowned him. But her husband was dying and wanted to see Joe again. What she found surprised her. When Mrs. Hulda Levine got the letter from Lady Witcombe-Adlyr she read it then quietly and threw it away. She decided nothing would get in the way of her normal life.

In 1995 Ruth Goldstein ran away from home.

In 2005 Ruth became in contact with her family again.

Sherlock learned all of this while sitting in a Starbucks the next day. He didn't go back to Samuel's coffee shop. It was the bare bones outline of a life. One facet of The Woman.


	2. Chapter 2

At six in the evening, Sherlock returned to the coffee shop that Sam Goldstein ran. It was called Cup o' Joe, not exactly original. The girl behind the counter, not Irene- Ruth- he corrected himself. Sold him a cup of coffee with a smile. She informed him the witty knitters group would be meeting there and if he minded. He did, but then asked: "I'm a friend of Ruth's from England can you give her a message?"

"Well she comes in for the knitting group you can tell her yourself. It starts in about 15 minutes." said the girl.

"Oh, thank you," He said with a smile. "I think I will."

So he sat in his corner and looked over all the information he'd pulled up about Irene Adler's real identity. All he could gather. There was more about an An Anne Witcombe-Adlyr being enrolled in Chelenham Ladies' College, a fifteen year old American girl who'd been adopted by Lady Mary Witcombe-Adlyr. The school records showed that Miss Anne had many problems with the teachers, and had run away in 1997 never to be heard from by Lady Mary or anyone else.

The witty knitters were gathering, Sherlock lazily observed the group of women, not one over 45. And then she came in. She was in the company of a black woman with long dreds, and a young pale redhead who carried a dark haired baby boy on her back. The black woman was a friend, and the redhead was her sister-in-law. They were laughing. She looked over at him and laughed more. The knitting group got underway. They talked about nothing interesting, knitting things, gossip about people he didn't know, and domestic things. He sipped his coffee and waited. She was looking over at him and the women were laughing. Irene cooed over her nephew. Tedium, who knew the woman was so boring?

Eventually Sherlock just left and went back to his squat. And waited. It was after midnight when he heard the door handle being jiggled. And her footfalls on the floor.

He did not leave the bed and kept his back to her. If wasn't her, which he was certain of, he could defend himself.

He smiled to himself.

"I couldn't talk to you today," She said. "I was too afraid."

"Of that woman?" He said turning.

"No, I could handle her." she said. "I'm just worried what she'll do to my friends and family to get to me."

He thought of the women she was knitting with.

"So who are you? Ruth, Irene, Anne?" He asked.

"All of the above." She said.

She was wearing a long trench coat. And he guessed nothing under it.

"Sex again?" He yawned. "That is so tedious, Ruth."

She rolled her eyes and let the coat drop. And again, he felt himself grow weak. Prickles of lust thought out his body. He could smell her: soap, a dab of spicy perfume and her skin. Hormones, chemical reactions that was all.

"Are you going to stare all night?" She asked with a cocky smile. "Or do you want something to eat?"

She walked towards the bed, her hips moving like liquid.

He was painfully hard. He wanted her so bad. But this was not what he needed. But she was touching him, her hand in his hair. He wanted to melt into her. Like a male angler fish into the female.

"Tell me," He said after she kissed him. "I have to know, who are you?"

She smiled. "After. You're gagging for it."

Her hand was under the blanket. Touching him clasped around his penis. And he found all reason leaving his mind as she bent down her mouth closed around his erection.

It was after, they lay in bed smoking cigarettes cliché but true. She was nestled under his arm.

"Opium perfume?" He said. "Different country, different you."

"Exactly," She said and exhaled.

"So who are you?" He asked.

"You've done research on me," She said.

"Obviously," He said.

"Well I should tell you then," She said. "You could even help me."

It was October 1995. Ruth was fourteen and sitting outside the prinpical's office pressing ice to her bruised face. She had a short green mohawk, silver earrings up and down her lobes. She wore a short plaid mini skirt and a black t-shirt bearing the name of a Riot grrrl band. A necklace with a rainbow triangle on a metal chain around her neck. She heard a commotion coming through the school. Her mother.

Mrs. Levine was still in shape, she had a tan, and big dyed blonde hair. She was dressed in pastels. She was shorter then her daughter.

"Ruthie!" She exclaimed when she saw her daughter. "What did ya do?"

"Nothing," Ruth mumbled under the ice pack.

"You musta done something! School's hardly started and you're already in trouble." Mrs. Levin said.

"Why is it my fault?" Ruth asked.

"Mrs. Levine?" The principal came out his office. "We'd like to see you and Ruth in my office."

Ruth got up and Mrs. Levin followed.

They sat down in front of the desk.

"Mrs. Levin, this very serious news. Your daughter assaulted another student." said the principal.

"Ruthie, you didn't!" Mrs. Levin said.

"No I didn't!" Ruth said. "He deserved it."

"From what the young man told me. You lured into the girls bathroom with the promise of oral intercourse and proceeded to beat him up." Said the principal.

"That's a lie! That bastard, I was smoking in the bathroom minding my own business when his jock ass comes in. And says he's gonna 'fuck the lezzie out of me'." Said Ruth. "I just defended myself."

"The young man in question is a very good student, with a good academic record and on the football team. I don't think that he would attempt to do what you said." The principal replied. "Or that you could fight him off like you claimed. He's twice your size."

"It happened, dickbag!" Ruth said.

"I'm so sorry Mister..." Mrs. Levine began.

"...Chalmers." Said the principal. "Because this your daughter a earned herself out of school suspension."

"Good, I don't want to go this patriarchal fascist dump!" Ruth said and stormed out.

She left the ice pack behind. Her left eye was swollen and her lip spilt.

"Ruthie!" Her mother called after her.

Mother and daughter sat in the car together.

"You know Ruthie, I don't know what's wrong with you. We give you everything. But you never try I know you're smart but you don't seem to care." said Mrs. Levine.

"He tried to rape me Mom," said Ruth.

"So?" said Mrs. Levin. "With the way you dress Ruthie no wonder."

"Mom!" Ruth said.

"I'll never understand you," Mrs. Levin said. "Why can't you just be good. Why can't you just put aside this lesbian nonsense? Now I get the punk thing, I used to be that way too. It got me nothing but tracts marks and pregnant!"

"I like girls mom," Ruth said.

"You think you do," Mrs. Levine said. "You are so young."

"I know who I am!" Ruth said.

And there was silence for the rest of the ride.

The car pulled up home. A little suburban white house. Ruth ran out of the car, into her room sat on her bed and began to sob. Sam was doing his homework, in his room. When he heard his sister sobbing he ran into her room. He put his hand on her back.

"What happened?" Sam asked. "Why did you get beat up?"

"It's just a load of BS that's what Sam," Ruth said.

"I'm sure it'll get better," said Sam.

"I don't know." Ruth said.

"...And that's when I decided I'd run away from home. I wasn't who I am now. I was young and I thought there couldn't be a place more horrible then my own house." Irene said.

"And what does this have to do with your current problems?" He said.

"You need the background to understand this, to understand this." She said. "You wanted to know who I am, and I'm telling you."

"Would you have told me before this?" He asked.

"No," She said. "But she is after me, and I need your help."

He turned away from her. "The last time you claimed that-"

"-Was different," She said and put a hand on his shoulder. "This is real, you may have heard of her. My lover was Dorota Goral other wise known as..."

He turned back to face her.

"...Sudden Death. The Romani mercenary and assassin. I've heard of her she's very good. No wonder you need Moriarty's protection." He said. "It's a wonder you aren't dead yet."

"She's obsessed with me. I'm worried for my brother and his family." She said.

"So what do you propose we do about this?" He asked.

"Whatever we can," She replied.

He nodded. "First of all you going back to your family was a mistake, it puts them at considerable risk. We need to leave here."

"I know," She said. "What can I say? It was sentiment."

Her voice was odd, the polished accent that he was used to broke, and the Jersey girl came back.

"Do you think she has any idea where you are?" asked Sherlock.

"If she did, she'd be here." Irene replied. "But knowing her, she's on my trail now. If she finds you..."

"What?" Sherlock asked. "I'm perefectly able of taking care of myself."

"That's what Tamara thought," Irene muttered.

2005: Los Angeles.

She had been calling herself Jessica S. professionally and Myrna Parker non-professionally. She wasn't a full-time domme, not yet. She was still an escort. One that charged over $600 for less then an hour. So maybe not just an escort. Her clients: the movers and shakers of Hollywood, CEOs, and whoever could afford her. But at home she was Myrna and she wanted to stay Myrna, because of Tamara. It was a lie, but she would tell Tamara the truth soon. Tamara Jenkins, was an ex-gang member, who ran a very successful security firm with her brother. Tamara had light green eyes, skin the color of a latté, freckles and an infectious smile. She was intelligent, tough as nails and beautiful. And she didn't care what her lover did for a living.

'As long as you come home to me,' She'd say.

And Irene/Ruth/Myrna did. That day she came home after, a week's long job in Tahiti. It was odd that Tamara wasn't waiting for her at the airport. And when she arrived home, a very nice home, Tamara wasn't there either. The hours passed and there was no word from her. Then at 2 am came a call:

'Tam?' She answered, knowing her lover's cellphone number when it has flashed on the screen.

'You lied,' Tamara said, her voice choked with emotion. 'You lied to me. I know who you are Ruth.'

Her heart sank. 'I was going to tell you.'

'I can't stay with you,' Tamara said, there was a sadness a desperation in her voice. 'Our whole life is a lie. Everything... you... told me... everything we... had...'

"Tam, are you alright?' She asked.

'Yes, but I'm so-so... disa-pointed and -hurt...' Tamara voice was filled with fear and choked with tears.

'You're lying what's going on?' she asked.

'I-I-...'

'You are! Tell me what's happening?'

'Oh god, she's stone cold psycho! She won't stop hurting me, Myrna. She says she'll get my family... if I don't- bitch is crazy...' And Tamara's words cut off with a scream.

The line went dead. Irene called the familiar number again and again it went to voice mail.

And Irene went in her suitcase and got out her pistol. And waited there was a knock at the door. She took the pistol in hand, and cautiously opened it. There like a bad dream was Dorota. Her dark eyes, her dark curly hair, and her slow smile. She was holding a bouquet of roses.

'I missed you darling,' said Dorota with her smokey, heavily accented voice.

Irene pointed the pistol at her head. 'Where's Tamara? What have you done with her?'

'Put gun down, and let us talk,' Dorota said.

Irene hesitated but slowly put the gun on table by the door.

Dorota walked into the house as if she belonged there.

'I should kill you,' Irene said. 'All the shit you put me through.'

'But you won't,' Dorota said. 'You love me, as I love you.'

And handed her the roses.

Irene put the roses next to the gun, gingerly as if the flowers were covered with shit.

'I told you,' Irene said. 'It's over, I don't love you.'

Dorota shook her head. 'You lie. Me and you, we are connected, no? We are twin souls. You need me and I need you as fish needs water.'

'Tamara is dead isn't she?' said Irene.

Dorota smiled again. 'Her? That stupid bitch! She was unworthy of you.'

'I love her,' said Irene.

'No you don't,' Dorota said and got closer to Irene. 'The only one you ever love is me. We both are the same. When my family discovered I was a lesbian, my brothers they, raped me. You were the only one who knew this, you understood, because yours is the dark path too.'

Dorota put her hand on Irene's shoulder, she looked up at taller woman. Dorota was grinning at her, an unsettling sight.

'What did you do to Tamara?' asked Irene again, feeling sick inside.

Dorota ran a hand down Irene's back, causing her to shudder with disgust.

'She's out of the way,' Dorota said. 'Now it will be you and I again. Like it should be. like it was before.'

'I don't love you,' Irene said. 'Not anymore. You're insane.'

And Dorota snarled at her. She grabbed Irene's hair and gave a sharp tug. Irene bit her lip and didn't cry out despite the pain. With another tug, she brought Irene to her knees.

'You love me! You will love me!' Dorota screamed.

Dorota began to drag her towards the bedroom.

Irene struggled and with a yank she was free. Dorota was left holding a clump of her hair. Dorota came closer to her, she kicked and punched at the shorter woman. A few of them landed, in the time she had, she was running for the pistol on the table. But Dorota tackled her, inches from the table. Despite the height and weight difference, Dorota had her pinned, her body on on each of Irene's pressure points. And quicker then a wink she had a switch blade pointed at Irene's throat.

'Don't, my love, don't do we will both regret it. Don't force my hand.' Dorota said.

'This is why I left you,' Irene said. 'You hurt me, over and over again.'

'You cheated on me!' roared Dorota.

'I was doing my job,' Irene said. 'You knew what I was when we got together.'

'I'll cut you! No one will want you when I'm done with you!' Dorota said. 'You'll have to stay with me!'

And the knife plunged down towards her face. And stopped. Irene saw the hesitant look on Dorota's face.

'What? Go on, do it! Don't you have the guts?' She called.

'I can't you are to beautiful,' Dorota said. 'I cannot ruin your face. My love.'

And then Dorota put the knife back. Irene began to move, maybe she could get to the gun...But Dorota was there a blackjack in her hand. And with a sharp rap, she knew no more.

She woke up alone in her bed. There was a note from Dorota: a rambling incoherent, love letter one the few things that made sense in it was Dorota inviting her to Bangkok. There was a plane ticket. Irene knew who could make it all go away. She picked up her phone and called the one man that could help her: Jim Moriarty.

"They found what was left of Tamara in a dumpster," Irene said in a cold empty voice. "It was put down to some old gang related score. If Dorota knew you were here, you'd be dead."

"I see," said Sherlock. "So she hasn't tracked you this far?"

"Not yet, but it's a matter of time," Irene said. "Jim is no longer around to protect me."

"You should leave," Sherlock said, it pained him to say this but he kept the emotion out of his voice. "You should leave me, we can't do this. You are putting everyone at risk."

"I have no money, it's all gone." Irene confessed.

"Neither do I," Sherlock said.

"So what do we do?" Irene said.

"Wait, and get her." said Sherlock.


End file.
